


I Put A Spell On You

by dance_dance_miserable



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Be My Peterick Valentine 2019, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Witchcraft, feedback is appreciated, love potion, this is my first real fic so be ruthless in the comments, witch!pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_dance_miserable/pseuds/dance_dance_miserable
Summary: Pete Wentz never really considered himself a romantic. Sure, he could bear‒ and sometimes even enjoy‒ the romantic subplots shoehorned into every piece of media available for public consumption, but that was the extent of his tolerance forthe magic of l’amour. Couples kissing in the street? Sappy rom-coms? Ads for diamond companies picturing a perfect proposal because ‘He went to Jared’? All of these things just reminded Pete that true love wasn’t real, and all of these things were especially prevalent in February.





	I Put A Spell On You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This my first real fic and I'm honored to have it included in the Be My Peterick Valentine collection this year! A big thank you to everyone who encouraged me to participate and to [das-verlorene-kind](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/) and [butteryyoungtraveller](https://butteryyoungtraveler.tumblr.com/) as well as my lovely s/o [lucca-woah](https://lucca-woah.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> You can find the accompanying playlist for the fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3L4YYMtSg31nPJyu18EzQw) and check out [this](https://butteryyoungtraveler.tumblr.com/post/182814760081/my-first-addition-to-this-sappy-holiday-and-its) awesome fanart too! Enjoy and happy Valentine's Day!

Pete Wentz never really considered himself a romantic. Sure, he could bear‒ and sometimes even enjoy‒ the romantic subplots shoehorned into every piece of media available for public consumption, but that was the extent of his tolerance for _the magic of l’amour_. Couples kissing in the street? Sappy rom-coms? Ads for diamond companies picturing a perfect proposal because ‘He went to Jared’? All of these things just reminded Pete that true love wasn’t real, and all of these things were especially prevalent in February. 

Particularly in the days leading up to February 14th. 

Valentine’s Day: the mushiest, gushiest day of the year. 

The day each and every couple finds it appropriate to spill all their love for each other at once, leaving their hearts dry and empty for the rest of the year and causing the inevitable decay of their relationship. Valentine’s Day was invented by the greeting card company after all, not to promote romance and chivalry, but to promote corporate greed in the form of expensive candies and bouquets. 

Or maybe that was just what lonely people told themselves to feel better about their lack of a lover.

Lonely people like Pete.

Now, ‘lonely’ wasn’t necessarily a word that Pete would use to describe himself. Alone maybe, but not lonely. He was an individualist, he was independent; even so, he certainly wasn’t as unlovable as his friends insisted he was. 

‘ _You always stay locked up in that smelly old apartment of yours_ ,’ they would tell him. ‘ _I know witches are supposed to be hermits, but you take it to a whole new level_.’

That was totally unfair! He left his apartment every time he needed to restock on herbs or crystals or potion ingredients. The witchcraft supplier down the street was practically his second home!

Regardless, he could get a date if he wanted‒ Pete was sure of it!‒ he just wasn’t interested in procuring one.

At least, he wasn’t interested until February 9th. 

Five days before Valentine’s Day, Pete Wentz sat on his shabby old sofa, socked feet kicked up on his coffee table. As Practical Magic played across his television screen, Pete munched away on a large bag of Cheetos, wiping his hands on his sweatpants whenever the buildup of artificial cheese dust on his fingertips became too unbearable. Romantic comedies may not have been up his alley, but the sizable dose of inaccurate witchcraft into this particular film made it entertaining enough for Pete. There was nothing he loved more than making fun of how little research the crew must have done before typing up the script. Resurrection? Death curses? Please. Had the director ever even _seen_ a spellbook?

Unfortunately, Pete’s endless ridicule of the witchy romance movie was brought to an untimely end when Netflix felt it appropriate to stop the film and ask ‘Are you still watching’?

The darkened screen allowed Pete to see himself in all his… whatever the opposite of glory was. Shame, maybe? Lowliness? He didn’t have a thesaurus on hand to find the perfect word, but those seemed close enough. 

Pete’s reflection showed him slouched as far back into the couch cushions as possible for someone who couldn’t phase through them. His hair was greasy and disheveled, his face unshaven, and the bags under his eyes rivaled those of a dead man. Fluorescent orange Cheeto dust decorated his fingers, face, and crotch of his sweatpants, making it appear that he had done much more to that bag of Cheetos than just eat it. 

Pitiful. He looked absolutely pitiful. 

Pete shook his head, blinking his eyes a few times as if that could chase away the visions of himself in thirty years, sitting in that same spot on the couch, covered in the same orange Cheeto stain as he was now. 

He couldn’t let that happen. It would only prove his friends right about him: a lonesome, dirty old recluse with nobody to love him.

Pete picked up his phone and dialed Joe.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Oh gods. He wasn’t going to answer. He was going to see ‘Pete’ on his caller ID and ignore the call and Pete was going to descend into misery and end up a friendless Cheeto-addicted old man and‒

“Y’ello?” The sound of Joe’s voice broke Pete out of his spiral of self-doubt.

“Joe! I’m so glad you picked up,” Pete breathed, the crooked smile on his face audible in the lilt of his voice.

“Uh, thanks? Are… are you on your deathbed or something? You’re never this excited to talk to me.”

Pete snorted. “Don’t be an ass. I was just thinking… do you, uh… maybe wanna do something on Valentine’s Day? Together?”

There was a moment of stunned silence on Joe’s end. Had Pete said something wrong? 

“...are you asking me on a date?”

“No!” Pete’s cheeks flushed red as his eyes widened. Well shit. He really needed to think about things before he said them. “No, gods no. Of course not. I meant like… going to the bar and getting hammered or some shit.”

“Good. Because I’m out of your league anyway, Wentz.” Pete opened his mouth to argue, but Joe continued before he could even think of anything clever to say. “I’ve actually got a date on Valentine’s Day, man. Sorry to disappoint.”

Pete’s heart sank. His friends may have mocked him for being single, but he was able to take solace in the fact that most of them were loveless as well. Until now apparently, because Joe had managed to hook himself a man.

“His name’s Andy, and... Pete, he’s _dreamy_ ,” Joe sighed. Pete could practically hear his heart-eyes through the phone. “He’s got all these colorful tattoos and bulging musc‒”

“I get it,” Pete snapped, cutting him off. “I get it, he’s your perfect match, your soulmate, whatever. Spare me the details.”

Joe snickered. “What’s with the tone, Wentz? Suddenly remembering your lack of a boyfriend?”

“Shut up, man. You’re being a shitty friend.” Pete took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He thought of puppies, daisies, a soft summer breeze‒ none of the above kept Pete’s blood from boiling. “You know what? Whatever. I’ll find someone else to spend Valentine’s with. Someone who actually _cares_.”

“Pete‒”

Pete slammed his finger into the red ‘End Call’ button on his phone screen before Joe could finish his appeal, hissing as the force bent the tip of his finger back a bit too far. Just his fucking luck. 

He threw himself farther back into the sofa cushions with a growl, his phone flying from his hand and landing on his thigh. Pete looked down at it with a scowl. Stupid fucking Joe and his stupid fucking boyfriend… but maybe Gabe was free?

Pete quickly learned that Gabe was _not _free on Valentine’s; neither was Travie, or Ryan, or even Mikey. _Mikey_ of all people had gotten himself a date, with a tall Puerto-Rican guitarist no less! __

____

Pete tossed his phone back onto the couch, watching it bounce on the cushions. Some sadistic part of him hoped that it would land face-down on the floor and shatter. Sure, it was childish and unrealistic to wish for your smartphone to share your pain, but Pete couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. To Pete’s dismay, his phone remained safely intact on the couch.

Damn. Why was he thinking like that? Self-pity wasn’t going to get rid of his friends’ dates, and it wasn’t going to make Valentine’s plans for him either.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Pete picked up his phone and‒ _gently_ ‒slipped it into the pocket of his sweatpants before heading up to his room. Maybe some fresh air would help cheer him up. And what better to bring him out of his funk than a trip to Crystals and Camphor?

A hot shower and a change of clothes later, Pete was looking significantly less homeless. If he so happened to stumble across someone on the street that was into greasy, scruffy emos, they might have even considered him attractive. 

That did not happen, and Pete did not find a miracle date the moment he left his apartment building. Instead, it seemed that every person he stumbled across on his little outing had already found their other half: a curly-haired blonde shared a kiss with his boyfriend at the corner of 5th and Main; a short and stout woman leaned on her taller girlfriend as they walked; in the window of a nearby diner, a handsome young man shared a strawberry milkshake with his partner. They were all blissfully in love.

‘ _Gee, thanks, universe_ ,’ Pete thought bitterly. ‘ _Shove it down my throat, why don’t you_?’

Eyes cast low and mouth twisted into a scowl, Pete pushed through the sickeningly happy couples on the street, a gray rain cloud in the clear romantic atmosphere. With a heavy sigh, he turned the corner and stopped in front of his beloved witchcraft supply store. He silently prayed to the gods that the soothing smell of lavender incense would bring him some semblance of peace as he pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The sight that greeted him behind it was better than all the healing crystals in the world. 

When Pete was finally able to pry his gaze from the old wooden flooring below his feet, he expected nothing more than the same old store he was used to. The crystals were always sorted into small bowls that were then grouped according to their healing properties. The herbs were stored neatly in labeled glass jars on the shelves at the far right wall of the store. Spellbooks were kept in the back left corner to keep the sun from bleaching them out. Tarot cards on the table in front of the register, incense and candles along the left wall‒ nothing ever changed inside Crystals and Camphor, not even the customers. Chicago’s witch population was rather small, and even then those who lived farther than a few blocks away from the store tended not to bother stopping by. 

Today, Pete recognized Gladys, the kindly old woman who lived on the same block as himself, browsing the herb shelves; however, when his eyes drifted to the checkout, his brain scrambled to find the name of the breathtaking boy standing there, chatting with the store’s owner. 

When Pete found no memory of him, he came to the conclusion that he had never seen the boy before. How strange. He knew almost every witch in the area, and he was absolutely certain he knew every witch that visited the shop with any sort of frequency, which could only mean one thing.

This beautiful stranger wasn’t a witch.

It was far from uncommon for the local Fains to pay Crystals and Camphor a visit. Many non-magical folk used herbs and candles almost daily, and some even showed an interest in using the bowls of prettily polished crystals for a dining table centerpiece. Gerard, the store’s owner, always welcomed them with open arms. Business was business, after all, no matter who it came from.

Curious what had drawn this particular Fain to Gerard’s store, Pete inched closer to listen in on their conversation. He’d always been eager to nose his way into other people’s business, especially when those people were as pretty as this stranger. 

Pete peered out from his hiding spot behind a tall rack of seed packets just in time to see the boy’s plump lips part, an angelic giggle escaping from behind them. The smile that remained in the aftermath was even more dazzling than the quartz on display at the front of the store. Pete felt his legs and brain both turn to jelly at the sight.

“So you’re having someone over for Valentine’s then?” Pete heard Gerard ask as they packed up the Fain’s purchases. Herbs, it looked like: thyme and basil and rosemary. “Nobody puts this much effort into a meal unless they’re going to be sharing it with someone special.”

Pete’s heart sank. All his distant hopes of romancing the adorable stranger, going on a few nice dates, making love, getting married, and adopting three children‒ two twin boys and a younger girl‒ began to fade. 

But then the Fain laughed again, his rosy cheeks going even pinker and his blue-hazel eyes glittering. 

“Gods, no,” he snorted, brushing a loose strand of thin, strawberry-blonde hair out of his face. “All the effort is for myself. I figured making a nice meal would help me forget about being pitifully single on Valentine’s Day.”

Pitifully single? Pete was pitifully single! Visions of picket fences in suburbs and pastel-colored nurseries rushed back into his brain with double the force. Fantasy Pete and his perfect husband were on their way home from the adoption center with two little bundles wrapped in blue blankets when the shop door slammed shut, startling Pete back to his childless, husbandless reality. He looked back at the register, only to find Gerard alone at the counter, reorganizing the intricate glass bottles on the shelves behind them. Pete’s eyes darted around the store. Where had his soulmate run off to?

“Hey, Pete,” Gerard called, looking up from the potion bottle they had been polishing. Maybe Pete wasn’t nearly as well-hidden as he believed he was. “Can I get you anything?”

“The name and number of the cute guy that just left.”

Gerard laughed, placing the bottle on the counter with a soft _clink_. “Sorry, man, didn’t catch it. Maybe he left a glass slipper behind though.” They glanced up, their lips quirked up into a teasing smirk. 

“Oh, fuck off.” Pete rolled his eyes, unable to hold back a smile of his own. He couldn’t deny that his sudden interest in the handsome stranger did borderline on Disney prince levels of creepy, but was not going to go galavanting through Chicago in search of his perfect match. 

“Don’t get pissy with me, Wentz. I don’t blame you for being interested. I mean, did you _see_ that mouth?”

“Gods, yes, it was perfect,” Pete breathed, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the counter and rest his chin in his hands. “And those eyes…”

Gerard chuckled. “I get it, you’re smitten,” they interrupted, flicking Pete on the forehead and making him flinch, no doubt startled out of yet another round of daydreams. “Now are you gonna buy anything, or are you just here to swoon over pretty stranger boys?”

“I guess I could use a few herbs and stuff…” 

Pete trailed off, cutting his conversation with Gerard short as he began to wander around the shop. He couldn’t really remember what he needed at home‒ all he could think about were pretty lips and ginger hair‒ but he would’ve felt bad coming to the store and leaving empty-handed. Pete knew Gerard struggled for business, and helping keep Crystals and Camphor open was a benefit to himself as much as it was to Gerard. Where else was he going to find authentic pendulums and tarot cards?

His mind clouded in a fog of dreaminess, Pete grabbed a few things randomly from the shelves he passed: pomegranate seeds, dove feathers, chocolate, chili peppers… To Pete’s conscious mind the items seemed arbitrary and random, but his hands seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Maybe he needed pink roses and some parchment. Pete couldn’t quite recall anything, save for the face of the pretty Fain that had been standing at the checkout counter mere minutes ago.

And that face continued to haunt him like the ghost of a loved one who was taken too soon. Even as he paid for his things and headed back home, every glimpse of pale skin or red hair in his peripheral vision caused his heart to skip a beat. It was ridiculous, if Pete was honest, and Chicago seemed to be home to a lot more pretty gingers than he’d previously thought; none, it seemed, were the one he was looking for. 

That night he dreamt of a pale, freckled angel, and woke with a start when he reached out to touch Pete’s cheek. Pete’s heart thudded against his ribcage, his skin sweat-slick. He couldn't fall back asleep. He needed to find some way to calm himself down.

And that was how he found himself at Gerard’s store mere minutes after the doors had opened for the day.

“It’s ridiculous! I can’t get him out of my mind.”

“Y’know, Pete, it’s possible you might be in love.”

“Gee, not to be rude, but you are being absolutely zero help right now,” Pete grumbled, rubbing his eyes as if he could wipe away the dark circles under his eyes. Drowsiness clung to his eyelids like tar. He’d been struck by a curious thought on his way to Crystals and Camphor that morning: maybe fate had led his lovely little Fain to forget an herb or two the day before. If all went as imagined‒ kissing in the back row of the movie theater included‒ the sleep deprivation would be well worth the reward. 

Gerard held their hands up in surrender, hazel eyes wide. “I’m just sayin’!” they reasoned. “Sounds like a classic case of infatuation.”

Pete sighed heavily. They were right. Flushed cheeks, loss of sleep, butterflies wreaking havoc throughout his digestive system? Either he had caught some sort of virus, or he was crushing hard.

He told Gerard as much, and the store owner laughed. “You’re sick, all right. _Love_ sick.”

“Look‒” Pete huffed, spinning on his heel and making a move towards the exit. He cast a scathing glance back at Gerard‒ “if you’re just going to make fun of me, I may as well‒”

And then there was a collision, a pitiful yelp, and Pete was on the floor.

A sharp remark about lack of attention danced on the tip of Pete’s tongue as he pushed himself into a kneeling position, but the second his eyes landed on the sprawled-out form in front of him, his rage died instantly.

It was him. His beautiful stranger.

“Oh my gods, I am so sorry!” Pete quickly stumbled to his feet, holding out a hand to help the little Fain off of the ground.

“Don’t be,” he hummed in his mesmerizing, honey-smooth voice. Still laying rather haphazardly across the floor of the shop, he removed his glasses, wiping the thick lenses on the sleeve of his too-big sweater before pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. “I should really watch where I’m going.” 

And then he took Pete’s hand and, for a moment, everything was perfect. A deep red blush blossomed on Pete’s cheeks as he hauled the boy to his feet. Despite his rather marshmallow-like appearance, the Fain’s hands were rough and calloused as a working man’s. It was a nice surprise, to find out that there was more to him than Pete had guessed. He was eager to learn more.

“No, no, this was totally my bad.” Pete looked back at the counter and Gerard shot him a wink. He snapped his face back to the Fain, hoping his growing blush wasn’t as obvious as it felt. 

The boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he just gave Pete one of his dazzling smiles and wiped his palms on his jeans. “Let’s say it was both our faults and call it even, ‘kay?” 

“...’kay.” Pete just stood there, trying to take every inch of the boy in as quickly as possible. Previously observed were his petal-soft lips, blue eyes, and the red hair and fair complexion that genetics dictated came with it; new, however, was the dark birthmark at his hairline, the thin scar across his left eyebrow, and the ring of gold around his pupil that turned his irises into Starry Night. Pete couldn’t help but wonder what other perfect imperfections were hidden under the layers of fabric he wore.

“I’m… Patrick, by the way.” The voice brought Pete back out of his own head. The deep pink blush that now decorated the boy’s cheeks told Pete that he’d been caught staring, but that didn’t stop him‒ Patrick, Pete now knew‒ from extending his hand in a gesture of politeness. 

Pete took it, resisting the urge to bring Patrick’s knuckles to his lips as he gave it a firm shake. “Pete.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Pete. Even if you did kinda bowl me over.” Then Patrick smiled, and it was like the sun had finally escaped from behind the clouds. Pete’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sight, but he managed to hide his enchantment with an awkward chuckle.

From there, stunted conversation transformed into comfortable, open exchange of opinions, thoughts, and preference of the smell of lavender over cloves. They wandered the store together, flipping through spellbooks and admiring the intricate crystal windchimes hanging in the window. The inquisitive yet delicate touch Patrick used as he brought the translucent crystals closer to his face‒ “Someone clearly put a lot of work into making this!”‒ somehow managed to make Pete fall even deeper in love with him. Gentle spots of sunlight reflected off the crystal strings and danced across Patrick’s features. As much as Pete wanted to kiss each one until Patrick devolved into a blushing, giggling mess, he didn’t want to scare the little Fain away; instead, he accompanied Patrick on his hunt for scented candles.

“I like to spoil myself on Valentine’s Day every year,” Patrick said, taking a jarred pink candle off of the shelf and taking the top off to smell it. His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled deeply, and the smile on his face let Pete know that he liked the scent. That, and the fact that he tucked it under his arm to carry. 

“And what role do these candles play in that?”

Patrick looked sheepish as he bit his lip, his eyes darting around as he seemingly debated whether he should be honest or change the subject. Apparently the epitome of honesty, Patrick spilled the beans. “I usually take a nice long bath after dinner. I figured I’d spice it up for the occasion by lighting some candles and putting on some soft jazz.”

Instead of laughing‒ which Patrick apparently expected, judging from the way he flinched when Pete opened his mouth‒ Pete gave him a gentle smile. “That sounds nice. Relaxing.”

Patrick’s smile crept back onto his face, his eyes sparkling. “It is!” he replied. “Gods, I don’t think there’s anything better than a nice bath after a long day.”

Pete nodded and smiled along while Patrick to ranted and raved, the topic somehow drifting away from bubble baths to favorite flowers‒ “Mine’s lilies!”‒ to music. 

Boy, did Patrick have a lot to say about music. His claim of liking every genre was commonplace enough to bore Pete a bit, but the surprise came when he failed to tack ‘ _except rap and country_ ’ onto the end of his statement. 

“You must be a musician.”

Patrick seemed startled. “What makes you say that?” he wondered, lashes fluttering as he blinked up at Pete.

“Nobody I know likes rap and country. They don’t appreciate the work that goes into all types of music,” Pete replied with a shrug. “Only a musician could acknowledge that music they don’t love has a shitton of blood, sweat, and tears poured into it and still deserves appreciation.”

Patrick’s eyes widened and his pupils seemed to dilate slightly, though Pete was sure that part was just his imagination. “...y-you’re, uh... really good at reading people, huh?” He stumbled over his words, all flushed cheeks and tied tongue.

“It’s a gift,” Pete hummed, taking each candle Patrick had chosen out from under Patrick’s arm and placing them on the checkout counter, sliding a few dollar bills to Gerard as well, “and so are these.”

“Pete! You don’t have to‒”

“I want to,” Pete insisted, handing the candles back to Patrick after Gerard had bagged them. The way Patrick looked up at him, blushing cheeks and slumped shoulders giving away just how flustered he was. “Consider it an early Valentine’s present.”

“Th-thank you, Pete. I, uh… I don’t know what to say!”

“Thank you is just fine.” Pete gave him a reassuring smile and a pat on the shoulder. His hand lingered a bit too long in his opinion, but Patrick didn’t seem bothered by it. Quite the opposite, if the way his eyes glimmered was anything to judge by. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

Patrick gave a shy nod in response, and Pete took it upon himself to hold the door open for him on their way out. 

As they walked the busy Chicago streets, the sun just starting to set and paint the sky a dusty gradient of faded orange and pink, Pete wanted more than anything to hold Patrick’s hand; he wanted to kiss Patrick in front of the setting sun, tangling his fingers in the soft ginger hair hidden under his hat; he wanted to be in love, and he wanted Patrick to love him back.

But he was beyond convinced that the little Fain saw him only as a friend. Even after their daily meetups at Crystals and Camphor‒ with Patrick stocking up on things to make his lonesome Valentine’s Day into something enjoyable and Pete paying for everything out of the kindness of his heart and the depths of his pockets‒ he couldn’t fathom Patrick wanting to take their relationship any further. 

True love wasn’t real, after all. Especially not for people like Pete.

So when he asked Patrick to come over for dinner on Valentine’s Day, he wasn’t expecting him to say yes. 

Now it was Valentine’s Day Eve and Pete was pacing around his apartment, the butterflies in his stomach now carnivorous and bent on gnawing their way out. If someone had asked the Pete from four days prior whether he thought he would ever be almost sick with nerves over a date, the poor idiot would’ve laughed. Pete had never wanted to knock some sense into his past self more than he did right now.

There was that negativity again. He didn’t need that kind of energy right now, so he went from trudging mindless circles around his coffee table to trudging down the hallway to the spare bedroom-turned-witch den. Surely there was some crystal or incense or spell that could calm his first-date jitters.

Pete searched for his favorite jasmine-scented incense stick and struck a match to light it, closing the door to keep the smoke alarm from going off as it had when he’d lit incense so many times before. The incessant beeping directly canceled out the calming scent of lavender or mint or whatever smell he was in the mood for, leaving him sometimes more stressed than before. He didn’t need that right now.

Shutting his eyes and breathing deeply, the floral-scented smoke flooding his senses and lulling the butterflies trapped inside him to sleep. Finally, a little inner peace… or at least normal-person-who-isn’t-Pete-Wentz levels of calmness. As he ran his thumb over the polished surface of the quartz crystal on his windowsill, his peace morphed into focus. Enough focus, maybe, for Pete to study a new spell. 

Dashing to his bookshelf, Pete grabbed a spellbook at random, planning to let fate decide what spell would be most useful to him at this moment; in fact, he hadn’t studied in so long, he wasn’t sure he even trusted himself to choose. 

Fate seemed to have other plans for Pete, however: his desperately grabbing hands managed to knock a precariously perched potion book to the floor, the spine hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy _thump_. The cover fell open, the pages fluttering through the air for a moment before finally deciding what they wanted Pete to see. Illustrations of roses and feathers decorated the pages, the recipe written in an elegant, looping hand. 

Pete’s heart did a somersault in his ribcage.

It was a love potion.

Exactly what he needed to make sure Patrick loved him back.

Overcome with a sudden sense of urgency, Pete snatched the book off the ground, pressing his thumb into the pages to ensure he didn’t lose his place while he dragged his old wooden podium out of the corner where it was collecting dust. He settled it in front of his cauldron and placed the open spellbook on it, allowing for easy access to the recipe as Pete worked to brew it.

As impulsive as he was, Pete was also intelligent enough to read through the recipe before diving in‒ figuratively, of course. He’d skimmed each recipe in this particular book before, but that was years ago. Oddly enough, the base of the potion called for milk to be heated in the cauldron instead of the usual mix of water and some sort of essential oil; so Pete went to his fridge, emptied the freshly-bought gallon of milk into his cauldron, and placed it back on the rack over his burner. While the milk was heating up, Pete turned back to the recipe book and began to read.

‘ _The petals of a blushing rose,_  
_A stanza of romantic prose_ ,  
_Chocolate to match their complexion_ ,  
_One seed for each touch of affection_ ,  
_A chili pepper for some spice_ ,  
_Sweet juice from a melon slice_ ,  
_One lock of hair cut from your head_ ,  
_A trickle of your blood so red_ ,  
_A single feather from a dove_ ,  
_Will complete your brew of love_.’

Simple enough, Pete supposed, and they’d even written it in an easily remembered rhyme! 

The instructions for the counterspell were written on the opposite page: the witch who brewed the potion simply had to tell their victim that they’d been put under a spell. Easy to do, but unsettling in how much power one would have over their victim. Nobody else could break the spell. Only the one who’d stripped away their victim’s free will could give it back. The thought sent a chill down Pete’s spine. 

But Pete wasn’t an evil witch. He didn’t plan on forcing Patrick to be his sex slave or anything like that; no, he only wanted his little crush to be returned. 

Good intentions justified questionable means, after all. Didn’t they?

Having satisfied his conscience, Pete got to work. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his stock of pomegranate seeds, rose petals, and other aphrodisiacs was full. The back of his brain reminded him that he’d bought them all at Crystals and Camphor the day he’d first laid eyes on Patrick. 

Fate was certainly set on this love potion idea. And so was Pete.

As the milk in his cauldron began to steam, Pete set to work, chopping and dicing and juicing, adding each ingredient in order. The hardest ingredient to procure, however, wasn’t the love poem‒ Pete had already written several in his journal over the past few days‒ but the blood. Even that wasn’t much of a struggle though, since Pete had been tattooed in the past and was basically immune to needles at this point. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed pain.

Shutting his eyes tightly, Pete pricked his index finger on a needle from his nearby pincushion, squeezing a red pearl of blood from the wound and into his potion. Slowly, the bubbling brew faded from a milky off-white to a vibrant cotton-candy pink. Adding the final ingredient‒ a dove feather‒ caused the potion to give off a smell like strawberry candy, the steam shifting from steady billows to small heart-shaped puffs. 

“It worked!” came Pete’s hushed exclamation. He scrambled for an empty potion bottle, dunking it into the cauldron and letting the thick mixture flow into it. Once it was full, he corked it quickly, as if he were afraid that exposing it to air for too long would cause it to lose its potency. 

Then he set it on his desk to admire his work. Streaks of varying pinkish tones danced and swirled through the liquid, their paths painting small hearts in the Pepto-Bismol colored potion as they moved. Normally, Pete would think such an appearance was overly cutesy; right now, he was thrilled. 

Everything seemed to be all set for tomorrow. Patrick was going to come over ‒ “I live in the big apartment building across the street. Can’t miss it. Third floor, room 380.”‒ at 8 o’clock sharp for a romantic candle-lit dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread. Pete would slip a drop or two of love potion into his wine‒ “You’re twenty-one, aren’t you?” Pete had asked. Patrick had laughed and replied, “Yeah, ever since April of last year. I’ve got an unfortunate baby face.”‒ and, hopefully, things would go smoothly from there. But‒ 

Oh, fuck. What was he going to wear?

Indecisive as ever, Pete didn’t decide on an outfit until about fifteen minutes before Patrick was supposed to show up, almost burning the spaghetti while he was lost in thought. His closet consisted mostly of athletic-wear, jeans, and tees. Eventually, though, he was able to put together a rather respectable outfit: a crisp white button-up, black slacks and blazer, and a matching tie.

He’d just finished tying his tie in the mirror for about the fifth time‒ he was dreadfully out of practice‒ when there was a knock at the door.

His heart racing at a hundred miles an hour, Pete dashed from his bathroom to the front door, grabbing the bouquet of lilies he had bought and running his fingers through his hair before fumbling for the doorknob. 

“Pete!” Patrick greeted with a sunshine smile, his bright eyes crinkling up at the corners. Pete’s tongue grew heavy in his mouth as he took in the sight. Patrick was dressed up in a deep red blazer, white button-up, and nice, black jeans. His adorable little bowtie was the same shade of red as his blazer, patterned with little white hearts, a black fedora decorated his neatly combed ginger hair, and… was that a hint of lip gloss shining on that pretty mouth of his? Pete supposed he would have to find out later.

“You look so handsome,” Patrick gushed, leaning in to give Pete a big hug. Instead of hugging back or returning the compliment like a normal person, Pete simply thrusted the bouquet out towards Patrick, startling him back. 

“For you.”

“Oh, Pete, you remembered!” He brought the flowers to his face, inhaling deeply to enjoy the aroma they gave off. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“Follow me.” Pete took Patrick’s hand to lead him into his apartment, hoping that Patrick wouldn’t notice how sweaty his hands were. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to, the two of them walking in blissful silence until they reached Pete’s small dining table.

When Patrick saw how Pete had set it up, he gasped softly. The table was draped in a white linen tablecloth and both places were set with dishes and utensils‒ quite nice ones, in fact. Pete had already plated two servings of spaghetti, the smaller dishes piled with two pieces of garlic bread each. Each place also had a glass of red wine already poured, the dark color doing well to hide the potion Pete had slipped into Patrick’s. The lights were dimmed and, in the center of the table, there were two red candles, giving off a soft, romantic light. 

“Oh, Pete, you didn’t have to do all this!” 

“But you deserve the best,” Pete replied, pulling out Patrick’s chair for him and pushing it back up to the table once Patrick had settled into it. He gently took the lily bouquet from Patrick, placing it onto the kitchen counter for safekeeping before settling into his own seat across from him.

Patrick’s cheeks went pink and he smiled timidly down at his spaghetti. “...you think so?”

“I know so.” Pete picked up his wine glass and took a sip, hoping it would prompt Patrick to do the same. Instead, Patrick reached for his fork and twirled a few noodles around it, slurping them up with ease.

“You’ve… eaten spaghetti before, huh?”

Patrick looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Uh… yeah? Why?”

While Pete tried to think of an excuse that wouldn’t make him sound like either a total creep or an alien, Patrick finally‒ _finally_ ‒ took a long, slow sip of his wine.

“How is it?” Pete asked, dodging the question entirely. He watched in awe as Patrick’s pupils seemed to double in size, his eyelids drooping slightly and his lips turning up at the corners. He looked lovestruck. That could only mean one thing: the potion was working!

“It’s lovely,” Patrick sighed, sounding dreamy and a bit ditzy.

“Yeah?” Pete’s breath hitched as Patrick moved to hold his hand across the table. 

“But not as lovely as you, Pete.”

Pete responded with what he hoped was a charming smile. “Please. Have you seen yourself lately? You’re clearly the lovely one,” he purred, bringing Patrick’s hand to his lips.

Patrick’s nose wrinkled up cutely and his cheeks grew hot. “Oh stop it, you,” he giggled. Despite his playful protest, he made no effort to pull his hand out of Pete’s grip. Rather the opposite, in fact, as he took another sip of his potion-spiked wine and began to play footsie with Pete under the table, giggling all the while.

It was unusual behavior for Patrick to say the least, and if he’d taken more than two sips of his wine so far, Pete might’ve guessed Patrick was drunk rather than under a spell.

“I love you, Petey,” Patrick hummed as he took a few more bites of pasta and another sip of wine. “I’m _in_ love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, with three kids and a perfect little suburban picket-fence house, and‒”

Patrick drifted off into dreamy rambles of fantasies and imagined futures that were almost disconcertingly similar to Pete’s: an extravagant garden wedding, adopting two twin boys and a little girl, even the golden retriever that would complete their perfect little family. 

This love spell was incredibly strong, and Pete was already starting to question if his use of such a thing was as ethical as he’d convinced himself it was.

At the end of the night‒ after the spaghetti was finished, the dishes were washed, and the decadent dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries was polished off‒ Pete and Patrick wound up snuggled together on the couch, limbs intertwined as they binged sappy rom-coms on Netflix. 

It had been Patrick’s idea to end their date like this; apparently, he had been craving Pete’s affection since they’d sat down to dinner. 

Pete had a sneaking suspicion as to why.

Besides the knowledge of Patrick’s enchanted state gnawing at the back of his mind, Pete didn’t think much of his touchy-feely mood. It wasn’t hurting anything, after all; they were only cuddling, with the occasional sloppy cheek kiss from Patrick. Pete wouldn’t‒ couldn’t‒ let it go any farther, or his guilt might eat him alive.

But after the end credits of Grease faded out, Patrick said something that made Pete start to worry even more.

“Pete?”

“Hmm?”

“I want to stay the night with you.”

“Oh.” Pete blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes as if that would fix everything. “Are… are you, uh, sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of something in my whole life,” Patrick promised, untying his bowtie and removing his hat, tossing them both onto the coffee table. He started to slip out of his blazer as well, but Pete reached out a hand to stop him, his cheeks burning red.

“Woah! Let’s get you some pajamas before you do... _that_.” Pete helped Patrick to his feet, looping an arm around his waist and leading him up to the bedroom.

“But‒”

“Do you want to stay the night or no?”

“...fine,” Patrick relented, settling himself onto the bed as Pete began to search for a few old clothes that would fit Patrick. He allowed himself a few indulgent noises as Pete helped him into the gray sweatshirt and flannel pants he eventually found. The little moans and squeaks made Pete’s cheeks go even redder than they’d already become the moment Patrick took his shirt off.

He was lovely, his porcelain skin dusted with soft blond hair. His waist was pleasantly plump, delicate rolls spilling over the top of his too-tight pants. When the jeans were swapped for the loose waistband of Pete’s old pajama pants, Patrick’s chubby tummy was free to jiggle as it pleased. Pete was almost disappointed when it was hidden away behind the sweatshirt he’d chosen. Then he remembered what he’d done to get here, and decided he didn’t deserve to see it again.

Once he was appropriately dressed for bed, Patrick shimmied under the covers with a giggle, his back to Pete as if he expected Pete to spoon him without question. Pete‒ brain still swimming in guilt‒ climbed in beside him, leaving a few inches of space between them. 

Patrick must’ve been unsatisfied with the arrangement, rolling Pete over to press his chest against Patrick’s back and laying Pete’s arm overtop of himself before sighing contentedly. “Much better.”

Patrick’s warmth washing a feeling of peace over him, Pete supposed that maybe a little spooning couldn’t hurt. He even pressed a soft goodnight kiss onto Patrick’s temple, making him giggle. Kissing wouldn’t hurt anything either, would it?

Though Patrick was able to drift off within minutes of settling into bed, it was much harder for Pete to silence his thoughts.

‘ _How could you do this to him? He agreed to see you one time and now look what you’ve done. Did he consent to being in your bed of his own free will? No. You’re no better than the creeps who roofie drinks at the bar_ ,’ his conscience scolded. 

‘ _But that’s the only way you could ever get a date: by taking control of their mind yourself_ ,’ crooned his self-doubt. ‘ _He’s going to leave you as soon as you break the spell_.’

‘If _you ever break the spell_ ,’ came the voice of his desperation. 

He _had_ to free Patrick eventually, didn’t he? Otherwise his guilt would overwhelm him. He’d only meant for the potion to make Patrick like him back. 

But as hours spent together became weeks without Patrick returning to his own home, Pete began to realize that it had done much, much more than that.

“What would you like for dinner, snookums?” Patrick called from the kitchen. 

Pete cringed at the sappy pet name‒ a now common thing to hear coming from Patrick’s mouth‒ and peered around the corner. Patrick was rummaging through the fridge, dressed in Pete’s clothes and a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron he’d received as a housewarming present from Gabe. As much as he wanted to do just that, Patrick had been cooking every meal for Pete since the morning after their date. 

“I’d like you to go sit down, relax, and let me cook for a change,” Pete huffed in reply. He grabbed Patrick by the apron straps, dragging him out of the pantry and spinning him around. Patrick let out a little giggle at that, his face scrunching up the way it always did when he laughed. “Seriously, Patrick, I’m starting to worry about you. Ever since our date, everything you’ve wanted to do has centered around me! Snuggling and watching my favorite movies, making my favorite meals for me, going to the grocery store together‒ it’s like you think you’ll die if I’m away from you for too long! It’s scary!” 

‘ _The potion wasn’t supposed to do this_.’

“But I don’t like being without you,” Patrick whimpered, that sinful bottom lip of his wobbling in a pout. He linked his hands together behind Pete’s neck, making Pete’s heart stutter. “I don’t know how I ever survived twenty-one years of my life without you in it.” Then his mouth was on Pete’s neck, pressing wet, hot kisses at the sensitive flesh there.

Pete’s breath hitched. “Patrick‒” He started to protest, but Patrick silenced him with a sloppy and desperate press of lips.

“Please,” Patrick begged between kisses, pressing ever closer to Pete. “Please. Want you so bad.”

“But, Patrick, I‒”

“I’ve never wanted to be with someone like I want to be with you. I promise, I mean it.”

‘ _But you don’t. It’s the potion talking, not you_.’

It was the potion making Patrick kiss and touch Pete, ushering him up to the bedroom, panting and drooling with want as he laid on the mattress, pulling Pete down with him. He undid his apron and tossed it to the floor. His hands fumbled for the drawstrings of Pete’s sweatpants, startling as gasp from Pete as Patrick’s fingers brushed against his inner thigh. 

“Gods, Pete, I can’t wait.” Finally, he got Pete’s pants undone, moving on to his own. His movements were clumsy with lust, his usually graceful fingers reduced to useless sausages under the sheer weight of it. “You’re so gorgeous, I want you insi‒”

“Patrick!” Pete roared, yanking his pants back up. His harsh tone startled Patrick enough that he nearly fell off the bed. 

Patrick’s blue eyes were wide, his lower lip trembling as if he were going to cry. “I-I’m sorry. Was, uh… was it s-something I said?”

“No, sweetheart,” Pete reassured him, taking Patrick’s shaking hands in his. “I… need to tell you something.”

“Can’t it wait? I really‒”

“No, Patrick, it can’t wait.” Pete took a deep breath to steady his nerves before continuing. “I… when we had our date on Valentine’s Day, I, uh… I spiked your wine with a love potion I’d brewed the night before because I was afraid you didn’t like me the way I liked you.”

That was it. The spell was broken. 

Pete was certain that Patrick would freak out and leave. Maybe he would slap Pete; maybe he would call him a creep‒ Pete didn’t care. He deserved it. He deserved much worse than that.

Instead, Patrick laughed‒ a deep, guttural laugh so unlike the little giggles he’d heard spilling from Patrick’s lips after he’d swallowed Pete’s love potion. 

“Why… why are you laughing?” Pete was confused. Where was the anger? The offense? The fear?

Patrick laughed again, grabbing at his stomach, his whole face going red with the sheer force of it. 

“Did you hear me?”

“I… I heard you.” Patrick gasped out between breathless guffaws. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt, looking over at Pete with a huge grin on his face.

“Then what’s so funny?” 

“I know you put love potion in my wine, dumbass,” Patrick snickered again, his smile never once faltering. 

“I‒ you _what_?” Pete stammered out.

“You think I don’t know what love potion tastes like?”

“Tastes like…?”

“Cherry cough syrup. It’s not subtle,” Patrick replied with a playful smile. “You could’ve put it in black coffee and I still would’ve known.”

“But… that’s impossible! Nobody can resist that type of magic! Unless‒”

“I’m a witch.”

Pete’s heart skipped a beat. Of course! How hadn’t he seen it before? Patrick’s use of the plural ‘Gods’ over the singular ‘God’ most Fains used should’ve made it obvious, and it was usually witches that were drawn to Crystals and Camphor due to its outer appearance. Fains visited on occasion‒ there were even a few regulars who were Fains‒ but any normal non-witchy person would’ve gone to Walmart or Target for something as simple as herbs to make dinner. That left only one question…

“Then why haven’t I seen you around before?” Pete demanded. “I know every witch in the area.”

“I moved to Chicago from farther up north last month,” Patrick explained, scratching the back of his neck. “I wanted a little more action in my life, so I packed up my stuff and moved to the heart of the city. I figured I was bound to find at least a few witches, but I didn’t have much luck at first. I got discouraged and started staying cooped up in my apartment, but then I saw an ad for Crystals and Camphor online and I knew I was in the right place. It was like… fate.” 

He glanced over at Pete, only to find him staring incredulously at Patrick. 

“...what?”

“It’s just… when I met you, I felt the same way. Like it was fate.”

“I guess the universe must be trying to tell us something then, huh?” Patrick chuckled. 

“Yeah.” There was a pause. “Patrick?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m… sorry,” Pete sighed, rubbing his temples, “for trying to magic you into returning my feelings. It was wrong of me, and I should’ve just tried to court you like a normal person rather than resorting to shady potions.”

Patrick offered him a gentle smile, taking Pete’s hands and cradling them in his own. “Yeah, that was poorly thought out on your part,” he agreed with a chuckle, “but your heart was in the right place, I’m sure. I understand your fear of not being loved back. Still, promise me you’ll never try anything like that again?”

“Promise.”

“Good. You don’t have to put a spell on me to make me love you. I already do.” He pulled Pete in for a chaste kiss. When they pulled apart, his eyes met Pete’s and tension like lightning shot between them. “...did you want to get back to?”

“Yes, please.” 

Patrick dove back on top of Pete, tugging off Pete’s sweatpants before moving to his own. Clothes were shed quickly; hands and mouths explored vast expanses of skin previously unknown; senses blazed with new sensations and pleasures and each boy wondered how these feelings had gone undiscovered as they made passionate love in Pete’s smelly old queen bed.

There were no potions involved. No spells, no chants, no tricks‒ just pure, unadulterated love.

And it was magical.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated, and you can find me on tumblr at [data-dork](https://data-dork.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat. Please don't be shy!


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